


down the road, or, a $1500 cab ride.

by runwithneedles



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Based on True Events, CSRA, Defection, Detroit, Detroit Redwings, Drabble, Ficlet, Gen, Hockey, Jim Lites - Freeform, RPF, Red Army, Sergei Fedorov - Freeform, Sergei Tchekmarev - Freeform, Soviet Union, The Russian Five, hockey defection, hockey rpf - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-12
Updated: 2018-06-12
Packaged: 2019-05-21 10:28:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14913678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/runwithneedles/pseuds/runwithneedles
Summary: Sergei Fedorov defects from the Soviet Union's Red Army.finished a thing.Sweater god i did nothing to this except add the internal narrative. The dialogue and events are scout's honor real life noir movie bullshit.The account is taken from  Keith Gave's book The Russian Five, about the five players who defected from their teams in the USSR to play in the NHL.





	down the road, or, a $1500 cab ride.

Portland glimmers through the dark and the rain, and the hotel gleams wetly, illusory and bright.

In a quiet lot at the back of the hotel, a limo sits idling. The driver takes in his lone passenger: a fit, handsome man with a stony expression. He’s been told to wait for two more men, and then drive like the devil to the airport. 

This makes him nervous

 

A bus pulls up to the front door, spitting streetwater and fumes. Men sprint off it, hunger snapping at their heels: they are headed straight for dinner. 

One does not run. He walks with purpose and a little bit of swagger towards the lobby, towards a newspaper hiding a man. The man looks up, meets his eyes, takes in his steady gaze and razor-sharp suit. It’s him, it’s Sergei, finally. Relief and yet more adrenaline flood him. 

“Ready to go, Jim? Sergei asks, in accented, nonchalant English.

They walk quietly, swiftly through the hotel, to the back door, through which the waiting car’s headlights refract woozily. 

The elevator doors open, and Jim’s heart stops. A man steps out, older than either of them, tall and broad, larger than Sergei. 

Sergei turns.

“I be right there Jim”

“Sergei no, let’s just go, let’s go right now.”

Sergei will not be dissuaded. He walks towards the strange man. 

“Give me thirty second.” he says over his shoulder. 

The man by the elevator looks at Sergei with a mixture of puzzlement and affection, his eyes twinkling. 

“Let’s go have dinner.” he says in Russian, moving towards Sergei. 

“I can’t, Tchekmarev, I gotta go.” 

Tchekmarev breaks into a laugh. 

“Where are you going?” 

“I’m going to Detroit.” 

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Let’s go. We can talk about it over dinner.”

“No. There’s a gentleman here right now. I’m going.”

“No, no, no!!” Tchekmarev sounds distraught, desperate. 

“Come, Tchekmarev.” 

Sergei walks him back towards the elevator, looks at him for a moment, seeing a hundred quiet conversations on the massage table, remembering the solid comfort of his presence in their small room when Sergei would drag himself through the door after a hard day, body full of pain, mind running like a mouse on a hamster wheel. There had been many days like that. 

All this, all these years, all the small bright pieces holding together their trust and friendship pass in Sergei’s mind in the span of seconds. 

He has to go, now. Now or never. He hugs Tchekmarev, brief and fierce. Friends are not easily found in the Red Army. What will they do to him? Will they hold him responsible? Fire him? Harass his family? All this and more, Sergei knows to be possible. Quickly, he reaches into his pocket, takes the money, all the money, and puts it into Tchekmarev’s hands. He looks him in the eyes.

“I am leaving for Detroit and the NHL. No matter what they tell you, I am not being kidnapped. I am doing it of my own free will, and I will see you down the road."  
He turns, walks towards the door, the car, the future.

Tchekmarev watches him go, barely aware of the money in his hands. He does not cry, his eyes are not even a little moist, but he encounters himself as if from a great distance, or through a shock, like the split second between injury and great pain. Sergei disappears. 

He looks down at the money in his hands. $1500, Sergei’s savings from a lifetime of playing the brutal, beautiful game. The elevator door closes, and Tchekmarev is alone again.


End file.
